Thank you for the reviews! And to the one person who got the reference... hehe. I'm glad you're enjoying it, and I encourage you to read on! Thanks again.

Oh, and if it matters, no, I still don't own the Winchesters. D8

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Chapter Five

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean called, although he knew he couldn't hear him. In the distance he heard music playing – damn it, why was that so familiar? – But the more he tried to follow it the farther away it got. He turned a circle, tried to get his bearings. "Hello?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a blast of water shot straight through him. "What the—"

"I believe we can call that a hit, Sammich," he heard himself say, and he turned around. There he was, all seventeen years of him, holding a fully loaded water gun and grinning victoriously. Dean barely had enough time to turn around before a soggy, thirteen-year-old Sam walked through him.

"Jesus Christ, would you cut that out?" Dean rubbed his arms, feeling almost violated.

"You got lucky," Sam squeaked, and the voice crack made his brother snort.

"Yeah, whatever, Tex. If you don't learn to aim that thing better you're gonna find yourself in some nasty shit."

"Well for one thing, Dean, this thing's a pound or two heavier than a normal gun, and for another you gave me the one that doesn't pump right."

"Excuses," his brother finalized, waving a hand, and he looked over Sam's dripping shirt. "How's about another round?"

Sam's shoulders dropped. "Do we have to?"

"Come on, man. One more. Then you can go do your homework or whatever it is you do for fun."

Sam rolled his eyes but let the comment drop. "It's getting dark."

"So what?"

"So we're in the middle of the woods and it'll be hard to find our way back at night?" He set the water gun down at his side. "Let's just go home."

"Come on, Sam. Just one more. Quit whining."

Dean watched this exchange. "Go home. Just go home."

"Dean!" Sam squeaked again, but this time it wasn't funny. "Look, I know you're still pissed about what dad said earlier but taking it out on me with a high-powered water gun to vent it isn't the answer." Sam's blue-green eyes searched his older brother's face with knowing. He was right and he knew it; Dean had gotten into an argument with their father earlier and had only suggested moving-target practice out in the woods with the water guns when he was fuming mad and in need of getting away from the house. "Let's just go." He rubbed his sore chest with his fist, not taking his eyes off of his brother.

"Nothing's wrong! This has nothing to do with that!"

"Then why won't you just come home?" A silence followed, and Sam looked worried when his brother didn't say anything.

Dean shook his head, eyes moving to the leafy forest floor. "You wouldn't have gotten it." He wished he didn't have to watch this.

"Right," Sam said when his brother didn't respond. He picked the gun up with a little more force than necessary. "I'm going."

Dean watched himself watch after Sam as he disappeared into the woods. He watched as his younger self seated himself against a tree trunk and tossed the water gun down, reaching a hand up to rake it through his hair.

And even after replaying this scene over and over in his mind over the years, the sound of Sam yelling his name still made him jump.

"Sam?" The seventeen-year-old Dean shouted into the woods, removing his shotgun from its holster. He set off at a run in the direction that Sam had left and the older Dean followed. "Sammy!"

Both Deans nearly skidded into a deep pit in the ground. When they looked down, Sam was inside it, clutching his ankle in pain.

"Who needs Lassie?" the seventeen-year-old muttered to himself, looking around for something to get Sam out with.

"Dean," Sam moaned from inside, "there's something out here."

"Something like what?" his brother asked distractedly, busying himself with tearing a branch off a tree.

"I – ow – I don't know, a spirit or something. Ow – I think I broke my ankle." Sam winced.

His older brother rolled his eyes, giving the branch one last forceful tug. "Great, we've got the vengeful spirit of Little Timmy pushing people into wells. Hang on, Sammy. I'll get you out."

Dean didn't want to watch this. He walked around the area, tried to will himself somewhere else, but he couldn't block out the attempts of his younger self or the pain-filled moans of Sam. When he opened his eyes again they immediately widened. "Look out!"

It was as if the younger Dean had heard him, because he whipped around and shot a blast of rock salt at the spirit. It drew back, but only for a moment before it went after Sam. "Christ--!" He leaped down into the pit, landing next to Sam and firing another shot at the spirit. Two more drove it away.

"You all right?"

Sam nodded slowly. "I will be. How… how're we gonna get out of here?"

"We'll figure something out."

It was dark before they finally got home, and for that they received five days of rigorous training, weeks of their father berating them, all for making this careless mistake – for Dean being stupid and not listening to his brother, not looking out for Sam. Dean closed his eyes and took a step away from the pit, a shock hitting him when he tripped on a root that he hadn't seen. Expecting to fall on his backside on the hard ground, he was a good deal confused when he landed in the back seat of the Impala next to Sam.

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Arr and arr. Matey.